


Greased Lightening

by francisabernathy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2576012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francisabernathy/pseuds/francisabernathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve thought he'd gotten everything sorted out, and then along comes Bucky, and Bucky is different. He's something new, and logically Steve knows that he's supposed to be ashamed of himself. He isn't, though. In fact, it's quite like him to do something that everyone else expects him to disapprove of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greased Lightening

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: homophobia language used, internalised homophobia, homophobic attack mentioned.  
> Check out the fantastic art [here](http://hereidreamtiwasanartist.tumblr.com/post/101935665411/my-piece-for-the-stevebuckybigbang-an)  
> by my lovely artist, Pauline! ♥ Thanks for N for the title and offering bad, bad mechanical puns.

 “Everything is more beautiful,  
because we’re doomed.”  
“There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible–magic to make the sanest man go mad.”  
 _Homer, The Iliad_

 

 

“That was nice.” Dolores smiles up at him, smile as bright as the sun. “We should do that again.” It’s early in the evening, still warm. They’d gone walking in the fields that surrounded their town, and they’d held hands and Steve had kissed her underneath the tall tree in the middle of park. She was warm and soft and her pink lips had left a mark on his cheek. She’d wiped it away with her handkerchief and smiled up at him and although, for Steve, they didn’t fit quite as much as he’d hoped – he was sure it would come in time.

 

“It was.” Steve leans down – Dolores is substantially smaller than he is – and dutifully kisses her on the cheek, although the feeling of his soft skin is nice. She’s reapplied her pink lipstick. Steve’s always been more attracted to red.

 

“You should be going. It’ll be getting dark soon.” That’s a lie. Dolores doesn’t stop smiling, though. She lays a gloved hand on his forearm and pats her hair with her other hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Dolores’ mother twitching the curtain and peeking out of them.

 

Dolores trots up the garden path and gives another little wave to him as she slips inside her house. He raises his hand in farewell and begins the twenty minute walk back to his own house, where his mother will doubtlessly try to analyse every move he made, every word they exchanged.

 

He manages it to the stairs before his mother strikes. “How was it, Steven? Was it fun? I was thinking –”

 

Steve doesn’t give her time to take a breath. “It was good,” he says mechanically, undoing the buttons on his suit. “I think I’ll just…go upstairs.”

 

His mother sputters a protest but Steve doesn’t hear, heading up the stairs and running a hand through his carefully brushed hair.

 

Dolores Smith and Steve Rogers had grown up together, even though Dolores lived several streets over from Steve. Steve had lived on the rougher edge of town until they’d earned enough to move, but that didn’t stop Steve making friends. They’d been playing together when the war was announced to have begun, and when the war was announced to have ended. She’d laughed at his good jokes and groaned at his bad ones and they were left to it because there was a war on. Then when Dolores turned fourteen, she’d stopped laughing quite so genuinely and had begun to giggle more at his bad jokes. He’d asked his mother why this was so, why Dolores was suddenly wearing little white kid gloves and longer, fuller skirts and he’d been told Dolores was a ‘young lady’ and he accepted this, treating as one, keeping her at arms distance away as to protect her. It was the natural way for them to be married, but not for Steve. Not yet.

 

The growing rebelliousness of the 1950s hadn’t touched Steve’s town as much as everywhere else. The ‘new music’ written about in the papers that were delivered every week hadn’t seemed to enter everyone’s world here like it had in the big cities. Steve had grown up knowing he would go into banking like all the boys did and marry a nice girl as he turned old enough, just as all of his friends were starting to do. A nice, sensible girl. He thought it was what he wanted, back when he and Dolores played house with Marjorie and David as their neighbours and Dolores had proclaimed he wanted two children and a kettle in her kitchen.

 

“Steve Rogers.” He says, over and over in his head. “Dolores Rogers. Mrs. Dolores Rogers.”

 

It just doesn’t sound _right_. Dolores is a nice girl. She’s pretty. Her hair is nice and she smells like petunias. She can bake a mean apple pie and his mom likes her and he thinks he should probably buy her something to mark her as ‘his girl’ soon or she’ll think he’s messing her about.

 

It’s widely known that all Dolores wants is a nice husband who can give her two children – a boy and a girl, to be named John and Emily, respectively – but Steve isn’t sure he wants the same things as her. He’s been almost sure of this ever since there was a photo of England in the newspaper and he’d said how interesting it would be to go over there and Dolores had clutched at his arm and gasped how long of a journey it would be, how frightening, and Steve had just thought how frightening _that_ sounded, to be stuck in the same place for all one’s life.

 

And for all intents and purpose, he was.

 

Not for the first time, Steve closes his eyes and thinks about marrying Darcy Lewis. It’s selfish, he knows, because she found the whole experience of living here, even for the summer, utterly claustrophobic. She’d been travelling with her father, and her skirt was just a little bit shorter, and she’d worn trousers because her dad didn’t mind. Her hair was always down, even in the hottest days of the year, and she painted on her red lipstick every morning without fail, and she’d left marks on his lips when she’d kissed him goodnight. She was bold. _Fast_ , his mother whispered when she thought he couldn’t hear. For the summer, Dolores didn’t exist, relegated to playing with her friends as Darcy enraptured him.

 

 

It’s the start of a long, hot summer. Steve can tell, even though this is the first for a few years. The fields are drying up, going from luscious green to yellow and brown, and the grass is fading to yellow. Summers in the south always bring humidity, something Steve intensely dislikes about the area.

 

“Let’s go out on the bike,” he asked Dolores a few days after his date with her, who had nodded and felt it would be an adventure. He wasn’t entirely sure what the logistics of it would be, seeing as she had those long dresses and pretty white gloves but he was sure they could manage, even if they walked far enough out that she could hitch up her skirt a little bit.

 

Then he’d tried to start it up and it had sputtered for a bit, and he’d cursed – quietly – and decided to see if Clint could fix it up for him. It’d be a bit late but maybe he’d still be able to take Dolores out. He fingers the tiny little box in his pocket and shoves it deeper down inside.

 

He wheels it around to Clint’s garage, meeting Dolores along the way as she stands outside her house. She’s wearing a pretty pink skirt and a white shirt and it’s too hot for gloves, apparently, so Steve gets to see her hands. She so rarely bares her hands, preferring to opt for white gloves like her mother does and his mother does and every other girl he’s known, except for Darcy.

 

He meets Clint at the garage doors, staring out at the sunset, hands all greasy and dirty. Steve looks down at his own pressed blue suit and feels oddly self-conscious.

 

“Steve,” Clint says in greeting. “You alright?”

 

“Bike won’t start. I don’t know what’s up with it,” Steve says to Clint, gesturing at the bike. “It’s just not starting up.”

 

Clint nods. “Well, it’s your lucky day,” he says with a grin, “because a friend’s just come down from up north and he’s the one that sold me the bike who sold you _yours_.” He turns around and moves inside, the sun setting over his head. Steve gestures for Dolores to follow him as he trails inside.

 

Steve bought his bike when he was fifteen, after he spent a whole summer doing gardening for his elderly neighbours. His parents were horrified, of course they were – but they couldn’t do anything about it. It’s Steve’s only little rebellion he has in his life, and Darcy once told him that he needed just that one little thing to make him different. Then she’d laughed and kissed him with her red lipstick and left red marks all over his face and they’d ridden all over town on it, Darcy clinging to his back like they were the only people in the world.

 

“Is he here now?” Steve kicks the stand out and leans the bike.

 

“He’s out back,” Clint nods towards the back door. “First day jitters, and all that. He just moved here, he’s travelling. Originally from New York.”

 

“City boy,” Steve observes. Clint laughs.

 

“Before I settled here, we used to cross paths every so often,” Clint shrugs. Before Clint came here, he travelled, eventually arriving when Steve was fourteen and Clint was twenty. Steve had trailed after Clint when he’d set up his garage around the back of town, nearer to the fields and freedom, and Clint had eventually let him help out when he got a little bit overwhelmed, teaching him the basics of an engine. “We go back. Travellers. I can’t really remember much, actually.”

 

Clint doesn’t really talk about the time before he settled down. Steve doesn’t push it. Dolores is staring at the bike. In his pocket, nestling against his chest, he can feel the corner of the box digging in.

 

“There he is,” Clint says, and he sticks his head back underneath the engine. Steve, just for a passing minute, feels oddly envious of the freedom Clint has. “James Barnes.”

 

James Barnes quirks an eyebrow at the reception he receives as he walks round the back of the car Clint is leaning against. “Hello,” he says, and he seems a little stiff.

 

Steve takes a step forward.  “Steven Rogers,” he says, and he sticks out his hands. James takes it and grins at him, hair all ruffled and tousled. It looks nice. Steve would try something like that if he didn’t think he’d look completely ridiculous in something other than how he wears it right now. Steve gestures at Dolores. “This is my Dolores.” Dolores smiles at Steve and moves a little closer to him at the admission of the ‘ _my’_.

 

James leans a hip against the car. “Steven.” He’s silent for a minute and then he looks up, a gleam in his eyes. “I’ll call you Steve.”

 

Nobody has called him Steve since Darcy left, except for Clint. Steve likes it.

 

“Sounds good,” Steve says. The name sounds different on James’ lips to when Clint says it. By his elbow, Dolores smiles up. He’s reminded of what he came here originally for. “How long will it take to fix?”

 

“If you want to come by tomorrow evening, I’ll have it done by tomorrow. Looks only like there’s a problem with the filter.” James shrugs and he grabs a cigarette from the table. “Won’t be too much.” He focuses on the bike. “You’ve kept her in nice condition.”

 

Steve smiles, proud. He cleans it every week without fail, polishing it up and making her all shiny and beautiful. “I try my best.”

 

James quirks an eyebrow. “Your best is pretty good.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. Tomorrow?”

 

Steve nods. “Great. I’ll come by tomorrow evening then. Is seven okay for you?”

 

James nods. Then he grins. “Call me Bucky,” he says. “‘James’ is too … stiff. Ain’t me.”

 

Steve nods. Bucky. “Okay,” he says slowly, and then adds on as an afterthought, “Bucky.”

 

James’ – _Bucky’s_ – grin is positively wolfish. Dolores looks up at him and smiles one of those nervous smiles she inherited from her mother. “Should we be getting back?”

 

Steve puts a hand on her back and steers her towards the doors. “I’ll see you both tomorrow evening, then. Have a nice night!” The two men wave; Steve wanders out.

 

 

When Steve goes to collect his bike the following evening, Bucky’s cleaning the car left in the garage. He has this big wide smile on his face when he greets Steve, and he wipes his hands on his trousers and shakes his hand. It’s a firm handshake. Steve feels this little shivery feeling run through his body, and he swallows and pulls his hand away. They walk over to his bike.

 

“So,” Bucky says, leaning against the bike, “that your girlfriend?” He puts his chin out. Steve doesn’t know what to think of the language, so he ignores it. “Yesterday.”

 

Steve blushes. “Yes, she is.” He tries to think if she’d introduced herself as such already. He’s not sure why he’s blushing: Steve-and-Dolores have been a _thing_ for months, possibly _years_ , if his mother had any say in it.

 

“She seems nice,” Bucky says neutrally. “Anyway,” abruptly changing the subject, “your bike. Wasn’t much wrong with it, just a few things out of place. Won’t cost you much.”

 

“No problem,” Steve says, and he fishes a handful of notes out of his pocket. They negotiate money, with Steve attempting to hand more than is necessary over and Bucky refusing.

 

“So,” Bucky says, and there’s that grin again – “you must ride her hard, right?”

 

Steve sputters. “ _What?”_

 

Bucky shrugs, gestures to the bike. “Some bits were proper scuffed.”

 

Steve goes pink, puce and bright red, all in that order. Bucky looks down at the car, fist to his mouth. He could be laughing at him. He probably _is_.

 

“Anyway, it was nice, uh, meeting you,” Steve says. “I gotta be getting back, but I guess I’ll see you around town, right?”

 

Bucky nods and he’s suddenly not laughing. Steve does this little half smile he does when he doesn’t know what to do, and it’s mostly aimed at Dolores and his mother these days. Bucky grins back, a little awkwardly, and Steve grabs at the bike’s handles and wheels her over to the doors.

 

“I’ll see you around, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says, and he does a little wave as Steve drives off.

 

 

Steve does see Bucky around time a few times in the next few weeks, although he’s not completely sure if he’s looking for him or just catching him accidentally. Either way, Bucky waves at him when he’s buying the papers, the groceries and just in the street. Bucky’s different to what Steve is used to – if he’s being honest with himself, he feels the same way he felt about Darcy when he first saw her. She was gorgeous, the prettiest girl he ever saw. He wouldn’t describe Bucky as pretty, or gorgeous, but he’d never admit how he really feels. Bucky is different – unusual – and it’s earning him more than a few glances his way and murmured rumours at coffee mornings.

 

His mother hasn’t commented on it, which is something Steve counts as a win. She’s a good mother, and her heart is in the right place, but Steve just supposes he’s desperate to get out and stand on his own two feet. Her subtle hints to propose to Dolores have slowly moved to very obvious hints that Steve just wishes he could let slide over his head so that he ignores why he isn’t doing it completely.

 

Steve pops his head into the garage a few times over the next month or so. He tells himself it’s because he’s been abandoning his friendship with Clint over more pressing matters, like the recent promotion at the bank or the fact that his mother has caught a bad cold; she may be annoying at times with her constant prodding and moseying at Steve’s life, but she’s a good mother, and she’s all he has.

 

Steve goes over late to the garage on a Friday evening and ends up staying later to celebrate Bucky staying in one place for more than a month with cheap beer that Clint got by charming the lady at the counter. They sit on the sofa that Clint dragged in and Bucky grabs the old guitar from the corner and strums it like he’s sitting around a campfire, leading a sing-song in the Boy Scouts.

 

Clint falls asleep some time when it’s late and Steve doesn’t check the time any more than Bucky does, so they settle back on the sofa and Bucky strums the guitar absent-mindedly.

 

Steve knows he’s drunk too much when he starts to get nostalgic and reminiscent of times when he was young, and it’s only when Bucky doesn’t really say anything in response when Steve just blurts it out.

 

“Don’t you leave people behind?” Steve rubs at his eyes. “You wander about the states and you must leave people behind; people you love, your family, friends.”

 

“They know I’m not staying for long,” Bucky says softly. “To be honest, this is the probably the longest I’ve stayed in one place for years. Staying in one place for too long makes me nervous.” He picks at a hangnail on his thumb. “It’s not something I do intentionally.”

 

Steve nods his head. “Sounds, uh.”

 

“Disjointed? Erratic? Strange?” Bucky laughs, but the sound is hollow. “I suppose that’s how I must seem to you, settling down so young –” He rips the hangnail, and blood smears along his finger.

 

“Hey,” Steve says, laying a hand down on Bucky’s palm, stopping him from picking at his nails. “I don’t think _anything_ of you.” The ‘settling down so young’ comment has irritated him, for reasons he can’t put his finger on.

 

Bucky purses his lips. Steve doesn’t move his hand – just leaves it there a little longer than is necessary, but something about it feels right. Bucky turns his head to face him, focuses his gaze on something just beyond Steve’s shoulder.

 

This is probably the first time Steve’s seen Bucky as something other than cocksure and knowing, and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

 

Bucky clears his throat and moves away, standing up to brush his trousers down and straighten his shirt a little. He’s drunk; he doesn’t do a very good job of it, but Steve doesn’t say that. He stays sitting as Bucky claps a hand on his shoulder and moves away.

 

“It’s late,” Bucky says, and their little talk must have sobered him up somewhat. “I’m gonna take old Clinton home.”

 

Steve nods; he makes his way outside and walks the long way round home. The moon is out and he doesn’t know how long he stands at the back entrance gate, staring at it, but he stands there long enough to figure out the changes in Bucky’s behaviour. Steve hasn’t known him for long, and he hasn’t spent a long time in his presence, but there’s still enough knowledge there to know that Steve messed up somewhere. He’s just not sure _where_.

 

 

Then the dreams start. It’s a combination of everything he’s ever thought about Bucky, all rolled into one, every thought he’s ever squashed down; where Bucky’s all greased up from the garage – even his hair is greased up, and Steve just wants to put his hand in it, run through the curls and the wavy bits, the bits that are short and spiky at the base of his neck where Clint cuts it because Bucky can’t quite get to that bit by himself – and every time, in every dream, he stops himself from touching him, kissing him, pulling closer, and then every time, _every single time_ , he reaches out and kisses Bucky, just as he starts to pull away. He always wakes up sweaty and hot and aroused, and the shame washes over him, in waves. It starts small, like little breaking waves at the beach and then as he remembers the bits of the dream that should be censored, that’s when he turns into the pillow and thinks of his girlfriend.

 

Because Dolores is pretty. She’s lovely; she’s like a piece of art. And Steve likes to look at her, at her doll-like features, her little pink heart-shaped mouth, but he doesn’t want to touch. He’d like to stand and admire, and work out all the bits in Dolores he likes best, just like he’d do with a Rembrandt or a Da Vinci. She’s too fragile. Too breakable.

 

Bucky isn’t. Bucky he’d like to touch and explore and admire – yes, he’d admire; but it’s different to what he has with women. It’s something Steve doesn’t really know about himself yet – not something he’s ashamed of, exactly, but something he’d like to keep quiet until he can figure it out in his head.

 

The fourth time subconscious-Steve ends up kissing Bucky is his breaking point. He wakes from his dream all slivery and tired and hot, and there’s an ache thrumming through his body that has _nothing_ to do with his girl.

 

At lunch, when he knows it’s Clint takes a couple hours out to visit his girlfriend from the other side of town, he skips eating his lunch with superiors and goes out to the garage, and what he plans to achieve in doing this he has no idea, but? He spent an hour at work that morning analysing everything Bucky has ever said to him or anything he’s ever seen Bucky do or act and this is the bit that terrifies him the most.

 

Bucky’s eating a peanut butter sandwich perched on a stool, reading a car manual, smoking a cigarette in one hand. Steve awkwardly stands in the doorway, all his previous confidence vanishing with every step he took towards the garage.

 

He coughs into his hand. Bucky looks up, does one of those slow little smiles Steve has gotten used to – and there’s that little twist that happens lower than his tummy every time he does it – and gets up from the table, swallowing the last of his lunch. Steve steps into the shadowy darkness of the garage and it’s a welcome from the hot summer sun and the relentless heat of the bank.

 

He figures it’s possibly best to start slow, and promptly blurts out the worst possible sentence. He doesn’t think he’s wrong. He can’t be wrong. Not with the books he’s looked at in the public library, not with the endless over-analysing of Bucky’s behaviour over the last few weeks. _Not_ when he saw the way Darcy looked at girls.

 

“You keep entering my dreams,” Steve says, and he sounds completely irrational. “You need to stop doing this.”

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, amused. He’s perched on the workbench, and Clint could walk in any time – but Steve’s just so _frustrated_ , and _confused_ and – and –

 

The looks. The way Bucky’s hand will linger for just a beat too long when they shake hands. The way Bucky never explicitly says ‘she’ when referring to his lovers back home.

 

The way Bucky is looking at him now.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

He isn’t the only one. Maybe – _maybe_ – it isn’t just him who feels this way.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says clearly, because suddenly everything has clicked into place, “if I kissed you right here, right now, would you punch me in the face?” He looks straight at Bucky, and he’s trembling. “Just for reference.”

 

Bucky flicks cigarette ash onto the floor, aiming for cool. “No.” His hand is shaking, too. He flicks it far enough that a little lands on Steve’s own foot. He looks down at his toes and summons the courage.

 

Steve barrels forward and kisses Bucky straight on the lips. It’s the first time he’s kissed someone _properly_ since he kissed Darcy when he was fifteen. It’s different from kissing Darcy. Darcy was soft and beautiful; Bucky is strong and unrelenting and all sharp edges. Darcy tasted like the red lipstick she wore and smelt like flowers; Bucky tastes like cigarette smoke, sharp but sweet and smells like engine grease and sweat.

 

Steve pulls back. Bucky cocks an eyebrow. “Did that solve anything?”

 

Steve smoothes down his work-suit, adjusts his tie. “No. Yes.” He trips over his words and blushes. “Maybe.”

 

Bucky nods, slowly. “So you going to kiss other boys to find out if you’re a fairy, or is it just me?”

 

“No,” Steve blurts out. “Just you. Just … _you_.”

 

Bucky nods and smiles again. “So. Do you, uh, want to try it again?”

 

Steve pulls away. His mind is reeling. “I just. I think I need to think it over.” He’s being ridiculous. He’s done nothing but think for the past day or so, his mind filled with nothing but James. James who calls himself Bucky because of his middle name because James is too common but how could a person like Bucky ever melt into the crowd?

 

Bucky’s face falls, but he adjusts it a little so it’s just one of his little sad smiles, the same one he gives Steve when he talks about what he’s left behind. Steve doesn’t see it very often.

 

“I need to get back to work,” Steve says, and Bucky steps back, treading on the cigarette and grabbing at a spanner from the bench.

 

“Uh, yeah, so do I,” says Bucky, and they stay there for a second, immobilized, until Steve tears his gaze away and takes a step back.

 

But, oh God, what if Steve is wrong. “You – you won’t, uh, tell anyone, right?”

 

Bucky shakes a head. “Your secret is safe with me,” he says, and then Steve flees.

 

 

It’s only when Steve kisses Dolores for the first time properly does he realise how fucked he is. He doesn’t feel anything. Not the swoopy feeling in his chest when he’d held Bucky, nor the fireworks that came after he’d pulled away and he’d realised just how much he _wanted_ to do it again. Even if he’d ran away like a child, he’d still felt the _urge_ inside him – something he’d never felt before – to kiss again. And it had scared the hell out of him, the darkness of the garage making him feel suffocated and trapped.

 

 

Two evenings later, Steve drops by the garage with his bike. “I just need to explain,” he says to Bucky, and Bucky nods like he understands. They walk out of town until it’s safe enough for Bucky to cling onto Steve’s back – so much has changed between the two of them, with just a little kiss, what if other people could see it too? – and then they bike for a while, down back roads and lanes that lead out to fields, peeling expanses of yellow and brown where the sun is beating down too hot.

 

“Here. Here is good.” Steve brakes, puts his foot down, stops the bike and kicks the stand down and climbs off, Bucky following close behind.

 

Steve shuffles in his nice, shiny shoes and stares up at the sky, trying to find the courage to say something, _anything_. Bucky stands beside him, so close they’re almost touching, and Steve feels suffocated but also as if he wants _more_. It’s the same feeling as before. Steve isn’t sure how to feel about it.

 

After minutes of silence where it soon becomes obvious that Steve isn’t going to say anything first, Bucky snaps and breaks it, turning to Steve and taking a step back. “So,” he starts, and then he waves a hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. “You and me … we are?”

 

Steve swallows. “I, uh, I haven’t quite got to this bit yet.”

 

Bucky nods, chuckles. “Where did you get to?”

 

“The … the kissing thing.” Steve holds back before everything comes out in a big tumble, blurting it out and then clamming up like he’d wished he’d never opened his mouth.

 

“Right.”

 

“She’s my girl,” and he sounds like he’s trying to reason with himself. “But … there’s you. And you’re a man.”

 

“I’m a man.”

 

“I thought I loved Dolores. But maybe I don’t. I don’t know if I do.” Steve sounds screwed up and confused as hell. Bucky takes pity on him and grabs at his hand, sweaty with nerves.

 

“You don’t have to put a label on everything, you know. Maybe you’re dating Dolores but you also like kissing boys.”

 

Steve nods, slow. “I think I like kissing you more than I like kissing Dolores.” He pauses. “You remind me of Darcy.”

 

Steve has told him about Darcy, back when they were just friends. She’s the girl with the red lipstick and the loud mouth that Steve fell in love with over the cause of the summer before she ran off to New York to make her fortune. Bucky doesn’t have red lipstick but he has a loud mouth and when they’d kissed for the first time, Steve was so forceful his lips were as red as strawberries.

 

Bucky liked the sound of Darcy. He liked the sound of being reminded of Darcy. He doesn’t know much about her, but he knows that much; but he also knows it’s a longer story for another time.

 

“So what are we going to do now?” Bucky isn’t being stupid, or pedantic, or wanting more than he’s entitled to. To get Steve on his own, like this, beautiful Steve Rogers in a field admitting he likes Bucky more than Dolores, is further than he ever thought he’d get.

 

Steve skirts the question. “How can one like both? Boys and girls.”

 

“I thought you didn’t like Dolores?”

 

“I liked Darcy,” Steve replies, avoiding the question, and he looks down at their hands, Bucky still grabbing onto his. “I _like_ you.”

 

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. He doesn’t know if there’s a term for that. He’s certainly never heard one used if there _is_ one. “You could just say you like both, you know.”

 

Steve lets out a giant _whoosh_ of air. “You’re a nice boy, Bucky,” he says, and he squeezes Bucky’s hand.

 

“I’m not a nice boy; your mama wouldn’t approve of me,” Bucky says with a grin. “Let me prove it.” Then he hesitates. “What … what are you gonna do if I kissed you again? Would you punch me?”

 

Steve shakes his head.

 

Bucky leans forward and kisses his cheek, just gently. When Steve doesn’t flinch, he kisses the corner of his lips, using more force. Steve makes a little noise at the back of his throat and grabs onto Bucky’s other hand – and now they’re standing face to face, and who will move first? And Steve seems to summon the courage to do it – and then Steve leans his head forward and kisses him on the lips, almost like he’s afraid to think anymore. Bucky moves closer and kisses him again, gently, chaste, and then moves a little deeper once he thinks Steve can take it. Steve turns his head to the right, and their noses bump a little, but that’s okay, and Steve is eager and new, and that’s okay, too.

 

They break apart and turn to the side and Steve’s breathing has gotten a little fast. He smiles against Bucky’s cheek, closing his eyes and just standing there, living.

 

“We should be getting back,” Steve says lamely, after a few minutes, and Bucky smiles wide and holds tight onto Steve’s shoulders.

 

“Let’s just wait a few,” Bucky responds.

 

 

“My parents died when I was young. I was shafted about from my aunt to my uncle and I ran away when I was fifteen – when I realised nobody truly cares for you. Nobody really gives a damn. They pretend to, and when you see through the pretence, you realise you’ve got nothing left.”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything as he sits beside him. This is the most Bucky’s ever said about himself in the whole time he’s known him.

 

“You once asked me how I could be so careless, Stevie. And I’ll tell you why.” Bucky fishes a cigarette from his pocket. “It’s because I stopped trying, a long time ago.”

 

Steve is hurting. He closes his eyes and pretends he didn’t hear all of Bucky’s speech.

 

“People tell you they love you but they only ever love you in that moment. I wonder what it’d be like to have someone who loved you for all the versions you’ve been. All of who you’ll ever be. Not just the version of you that you are right now.” Bucky lights up his cigarette, looking out at the sunlight.

 

“There’ll be that one person, one day. We’re still young.” That’s all Steve can offer. They’re twenty. Their whole lives stretched out before them, full of possibility and promise of discovery.

 

“Tell me, Steve, if that’s true, why is it that you’re already thinking about marriage? Is Dolores ‘your person’?” Bucky scuffs at the ground with his shoes. “If you’re so young, why aren’t you living?”

 

“Are you living?” Steve counters. “Moving about from place to place, no ties?”

 

Bucky is silent. “I’ve seen the world. I’ve tasted freedom.”

 

Steve has nothing to say to that. “I wish I could see the same.”

 

“I’ll be your taste of freedom,” Bucky says, grinning wickedly, and he leans to the side and kisses Steve. He tastes like freedom and cigarette smoke and it’s beautiful and terrifying. The sun sets on them as they sit, staring up at the sky, sharing a cigarette in silence.

 

 

It’s four in the afternoon. Clint left early from the shop to take his girl out dancing, and they’ve got the floor to themselves. Steve’s sitting cross legged on the floor, drawing Bucky because he hasn’t drawn for fun in years, while Bucky is hot and sweaty and glistening, peering into the engine of a car, shirt off and tucked into his jeans, cigarette in one hand and his other hand propping the hood up.

 

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says, sticking the cigarette in his mouth, leaning up and grabbing a hold of the hood, pulling it down and focusing on Steve over his shoulder. “There’s a film showing at one of the drive-in’s tonight.” He steps back. From this angle, Steve can see the muscles in his shoulders, bunched up and tense. “Do you … do you want to come? With me?”

 

Steve goes all hot and then cold, all at once. “Like a date?” He doesn’t even know what the film is, doesn’t even care; just knows he’d follow Bucky everywhere if he could, even if he denies it.

 

Bucky leans on the hood of the car and smiles at Steve, back to holding the cigarette in his fingers. “Yeah, like a date.”

 

The initial shock and pleasure fades, leaving behind the pain of what the consequences this could be, for him, for _them_. “People are gonna know. Guys don’t. Just. Go to the theatre as _friends_.” Steve eyes up Bucky’s cigarette, still dangling between his fingertips. “Don’t you think it’s a bit…?”

 

“Stevie –” Bucky pushes himself off his car and comes to flop beside Steve, looking over his shoulder at what Steve’s drawn. He doesn’t say anything; claps a hand around Steve’s shoulders. “Nobody’ll have to know. We can just be friends, yeah?”

 

Steve lowers his eyes back to his drawings.

 

Bucky puts the cigarette to his mouth, blowing out smoke and looking effortlessly cool as he does so. Steve just has a near asthma attack whenever he tries, and if Bucky comes too close, he’ll go all wheezy.

 

“Don’t overthink things. Be natural. If you overthink things, you’ll seem obvious, and then we’ll be thrown in jail and I know that’s not something you’d planned for your life.” He pauses, taking another drag, blowing out smoke in a ring that probably took him weeks to master. Steve wonders when Bucky came to be so careless with his life. “Come on, Stevie,” he wheedles.

 

Steve could never resist being called Stevie. Especially if it was Bucky calling him that. Any form of pet names Bucky had for him that he used always crumbled him into acceptance.

 

 

They drive up to the drive-in one of the cars that Bucky’s borrowed from the garage, because Bucky says what the owner doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and although Steve has dreams of taking Bucky on a ride with his Harley, it isn’t going to work.

 

“Where’re we going to park,” Bucky muses, turning to Steve. “Where’d you like sitting, Stevie?”

 

“I don’t mind,” Steve replies, ever the diplomatic one. “Wherever you’d like to, I guess.”

 

“Up this side,” Bucky decides. He drives up a little further away from the cars already parked, but if the cars already here are anything to go by, they’ll be surrounded by cars soon enough. They’ve got about half an hour before the movie starts, and this is one of the bigger nights, so there’s endless streams of cars lining up to see the screen.

 

“What’s even playing, anyway?” Steve cranes his neck to look at the map Bucky’s got tucked in dashboard.

 

“Marilyn Monroe,” Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t really look. All the guys should be here. You want some food? There’s a burger joint a few minutes’ walk, back there.” Bucky isn’t fooling anyone. He pretends to be careless – perfects his swagger and his smoke rings so he gets it right, fools the girls into thinking he’s the player, succeeds in the mothers’ warning their girls to not get involved with the mechanic in the leather jacket – but Steve hears the quake in his voice, hears the tremor in his voice when he tries to distract.

 

Bucky stops the car. They’re at the edge of the lot. It’s summer and even though it’s early evening, Bucky’s thrown off his jacket.

 

Steve closes his eyes and thinks of Marilyn Monroe. “This should be good. I think.”

 

Bucky’s tapping his foot against the floor of the car, and Steve gently lays a hand on his knee to stop him doing it. Bucky looks across at him and does this little half-smirk, quirky smile, something that Steve’s never seen him do before, but he takes it as reassurance. Bucky lays his hand on top of Steve’s, just for a moment, and then releases it as a load of girls and guys in big open top car coming right beside them, and Steve can tell they’re already drunk out of their minds.

 

There’s a blonde in the seat nearest to Bucky, and she gives a little smile at him and pops her gum; Steve focuses at the blank, black screen ahead of them, and wishes he’d taken up on Bucky’s offer to buy hamburgers before the movie starts.

 

The girl winks at Bucky and makes a gesture with her finger to come on over. Steve feels himself tighten in his seat and tries to ignore the pounding in his chest. It’s not like they’re dating, or together, or anything – they’ve just kissed a little bit and, and –

 

Bucky taps him on the shoulder. “Mind if I do?”

 

Steve nods, face impassive. He didn’t specify –

 

Bucky whispers in his ear, abruptly. “Keep them off the scent, like,” and then he opens the car door and invites the blonde to take a walk with him.

 

The guys in the car next to them wolf whistle and Bucky nods at them and winks, ducking back and grinning, repeating the same words he said to Steve. “Don’t mind if I do.”

 

He looks back at Steve as he puts an arm around the girls’ waist.

 

 

Bucky comes back after fifteen minutes – Steve had counted on his wristwatch – and he’s chewing bubble-gum. He slides in the seat and the girl giggles and slides in hers, watching Bucky out of the corner of her eye.

 

“So what did you do?” Steve asks, like he’s eager to _know_.

 

“Just kissed her a lil’ bit,” Bucky whispers. “Not really much. She’s pretty, though, ain’t she?”

 

“Yep,” Steve says sourly, and even though they’ve stopped getting funny looks from cars that are drawing up like before there’s still something that’s bothering him.

 

“Don’t be mad, Stevie,” Bucky wheedles, “I still like you the most.”

 

Steve turns his face towards Bucky and bites his lip. “You really mean that?”

 

“’Course I do,” Bucky says, easy, and then: “sh, now, it’s starting.”

 

They don’t talk about The Incident, as Steve has captioned it in his head, for the rest of the night, except for when Bucky pulls over a few minutes away from their town. “You know I didn’t mean it, right? I was with you. I just had to get those guys off our backs, they could have hassled us and I didn’t want that, not tonight.”

 

Steve relaxes a little bit after he heard Bucky’s little speech. “So you didn’t like – you didn’t do anything more than kissing?”

 

Bucky swallows, harsh. “She tried to, you know, give me a lil suck but I didn’t want her to. Didn’t feel right.”

 

Steve nods, and because they’ve only got the silence of the roads to surround themselves with, allows himself a little kiss from Bucky before they start off home. What with them having spent the night together tonight, spending more time together in the next few days might seem suspicious.

 

 

When Steve comes home from work the night after his date with Bucky, there are three guys in an alleyway, and they’re beating up another. Steve hides his face when he hears what they’re calling him – queer, homo, _faggot_ – and the words sting like knives, more than he’ll ever admit. He hurries on, and when he’s in bed that night all he can think of is Bucky, and the fellas spitting those words at _him_.

 

He should do something. He has before – he’s stood up against girls getting pushed around by boys they don’t want to be with, boys getting beat up by bigger boys because of their tiny round specs or their nerdiness – and he knows he should; it shames him that he doesn’t set down his briefcase and charge in like a bull in a china shop, like he’s been accused of doing before, but something tells him this is something he should stay out of.

 

The vision is still with him come Sunday noon, when it’s time to go to church. He shakes the shivery feelings that’ve settled in his heart overnight and puts on his best suit, meeting up with Dolores and her parents at the door, his parents following along behind.

 

When they’ve stopped singing, and the congregation is being ushered out, Steve catches sight of the back of Bucky’s head moving just ahead of them. He’s in probably the nicest – and cleanest – pair of trousers that he owns and he’s actually wearing a _shirt_. It’s grey. Steve would say that something poetic and arty like it matches his eyes, except Bucky’s eyes are blue.

 

Steve draws Dolores aside as they file out of the door, his mom and dad standing ahead and waiting for them.

 

“Just go ahead with my mom, alright? I just saw someone I know, it won’t take long.” Steve says to Dolores, who smiles prettily and gives him a light kiss on the cheek.

 

“Sure,” she says, and she joins his mom, hair curled up and white gloves and the pretty printed dress he’d picked out for her.

 

Steve thinks of the dark bittersweet silhouette Bucky leaves on his mind and then of the pretty blankness Dolores leaves on his. He thinks of the words those men threw at the other and then his resolve steels itself. He tries to forget the kisses, the enjoyment, replaces it with the hatred and the fear, and suddenly it becomes all too easy.

 

Steve grabs at Bucky’s arm as he catches up to him. Bucky looks back at him, eyebrow quirking, and hoping his mom doesn’t see the two of them slipping away together, Steve walks him round to the back of the church, where they’ll be hidden from view from anyone walking out, unless they come round to the gravestones.

 

“So, uh, I’ve never seen you much in church before.” Steve toes at the ground. He’s wearing his Sunday best, a blue suit with a matching tie. He and Dolores probably look good together. He doesn’t think about how mismatched he and Bucky probably look, walking down the road.

 

“I don’t – uh, how to put this – I’m not really a believer in a higher power, and all that.” Bucky folds his hands in his pockets and stares up at the sky.

 

“So why did you come?”

 

Bucky skirts around the question. “Aren’t you going to ask why I don’t believe in religion?”  


He seems pretty upset. Steve hesitates.

 

“My mom died when I was twelve,” Bucky says, when no question appears to be forthcoming. “I prayed to God for three months straight to save her and she didn’t survive. And then my dad killed himself. Shell-shock was what killed him. I couldn’t save him either.”

 

The silence stretches before them like an abyss. Bucky turns away from him. “I’ve been trying to be a good person. Somewhere along the way I fell off. Thought maybe I should try again. If anyone could make me believe in a higher power, it’d be you.” It’s like he _knows_.

 

Steve blinks. Takes a deep breath. “That’s…”

 

“Don’t give me sympathy,” Bucky says. “The very last thing I need is sympathy.”

 

Steve nods, even though Bucky can’t see him.

 

“You’re what I need,” Bucky says, finally turned to face him. In the minute he’s been turned away, his eyes have become impenetrable; full of darkness. Steve knows what Bucky’s trying to tell him, but he’s too scared to reach out and grab it.

 

Steve thinks of all the reasons why he should walk away. _This is illegal. I should propose to my girlfriend. My mother would be sad; my mother would hate me._ When thrown up against “I need you too” Steve knows which pathway he should take.

 

Steve waits a beat too long to answer Bucky, and he knows exactly how he should reply, except he can’t. He takes a step back. “My mom is cooking dinner right now. She’ll be expecting me. Dolores is coming.” Bucky doesn’t reply. “You could come with me, if you like.” Both of them know that’s a lie. It’s a thinly veiled ‘sorry’ and Bucky knows that Steve’s mom would never let him in, anyway. “I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

 

Steve takes a step back, still facing Bucky. The darkness has gone, replaced by a hardness. Bucky takes a cigarette from his pocket, the lighter from his other and lights it. He looks Steve directly in the eye and raises it to his lips. Inhales. Blows out a smoke ring.

 

“If I like,” Bucky says, throwaway, and Steve turns away and walks up the path round the church, back home. When he looks back, Bucky’s still in the same position he was when he left him, except his cigarette is shorter and he’s closed his eyes.

 

In that moment, Steve thinks he might hate himself.

 

 

Bucky doesn’t come for dinner, which is what he expected but couldn’t stop himself hoping for it anyway. He doesn’t see Bucky for two weeks, and it’s two weeks full of pain, and drawing up a Bucky vs. Dolores list – things about his girlfriend that he loves, honestly loves to bits, and things about Bucky that he categorically adores. He would have thought, with the two-tiered system, that Dolores would win. Except the first thing on Bucky’s list is _‘Stevie’_ , and that’s when he knows how far he’s gone.

 

 

Clint’s not in the garage the day Steve calls in, nearly two and a half weeks after that Sunday, and Steve can hear Bucky’s out of tune whistling from the street. He thinks back to two hours before and he crosses his fingers behind his back and steps inside.

 

Bucky’s at the back of the building, where it backs onto a courtyard, a car in the middle and a bucket of cold water standing by a wheel. Steve clears his throat and Bucky looks up from where he’s cleaning the hubcap.

 

“I ended it with Dolores,” Steve says quietly, by way of introduction, fingers clenching and unclenching in his pocket. “It wasn’t right.”

 

Bucky scrubs at the wheel, even though it’s sparkling clean in the sunlight. “That’s – that’s nice,” he says, stiff. Steve closes his eyes and walks up to him, hanging back a couple feet in case anyone sees them from the road behind.

 

“You must know why I did it,” Steve says, desperate for a chance to have Bucky listen. “You _must_. It wasn’t my choice. I had to do it.”

 

Bucky nods. Then he savagely wrings the cloth out. “I heard about that guy,” he says. “Killed. They’ve testified that it was an honour _slaying_.” Steve closes his eyes. “That what scared you off?”

 

Steve nods, opening his eyes, fingers digging in his palms so hard he’s leaving little half crescents, blood dragged out. “I walked past. Didn’t say anything. They were … saying stuff. I was scared.”

 

Bucky does one of his little small, sad smiles. “Why are you here?”

 

“I was wrong,” Steve says quietly. “I needed – _need_ – you, too.”

 

Bucky nods. He wrings out the cloth. “Sure,” he says, all easy, and Steve’s heart shutters. “You got to get back?”

 

“No,” Steve says.

 

Bucky grins, like he’s free to do whatever he likes. Now that he thinks of it, he is. “I found a pond,” he says, “and I’ve been waiting for someone to come with me.” He cocks a head. “You up for it?”

 

 

Ten minutes later finds them roaring along the country road in a ‘borrowed’ car as Bucky had put it, ready for the owner to pick it up in the morning. It’s silent, out here, and Bucky holds Steve’s hand because he can, and they haven’t seen anyone for miles.

 

They park the car on the grass and hop out, Steve following behind Bucky like he always does, until they’re walking around a bend and there’s this pool of water, and it’s something Steve’s never heard of until now – and oh. Yeah, that’s it.

 

 _I almost took Dolores here once_ , is on the tip of his tongue to say, but he keeps his mouth shut and sheds his jacket. It’s too hot.

 

Bucky’s laughing, ridding himself of clothing, hopping on one foot to take his shoes off, and he’s probably never looked more ridiculous. Bucky jumps into the water, naked as a baby, and Steve averts his eyes and peers, as if interested, into the grass.

 

“Come on, Stevie, live a little!” Steve raises a hand to shade his eyes against the sun and stares at Bucky. The lake glimmers ahead of them, promising secrecy, privacy. Bucky shouts and swears at the chill of the water even though the hottest summer Steve can remember. He’s laughing in between his swearing, and Steve is so, so tempted to jump right in after him.

 

“Come on, Steve,” Bucky repeats, and he’s up to his waist in water.

 

Steve pulls the laces out of their knots and unties his shoes and pulls his socks off. He hesitates before looking at Bucky, still standing and watching him. Then he takes his trousers, pants and his shirt off, leaving his undershirt on because he isn’t quite brave enough.

 

When he wades into the water it’s not as cold as Bucky had sworn but it’s still a shock, and Bucky holds out a hand to him the second he’s close enough and Steve feels like he’s floating on air. Bucky kisses him as they stand there, hidden from view. He’s beautiful and solid and so unlike anything Steve’s ever encountered before and his hair is short and fluffy as Steve runs a hand through it, and his back is muscly and tense as he holds on tight. They break apart, staring at each other; Bucky’s breath comes hot and heavy and his eyes are sparkling.

 

Steve’s still getting used to the touching and the kissing and the holding. It had been two and a half weeks without it but it was something that he couldn’t get over – Steve’s always been _dominant_ , he’s always been the one people look up at, except Bucky’s near as tall as he is and a lot more broad in the shoulders from his manual work. He’d found the sudden role reversal – or perhaps the right time is the neutrality of the relationship, where neither one of them was more dominant – a shock, but it’s something he enjoys. He’s still getting used to the idea that Bucky isn’t a man and he isn’t Dolores or Darcy. When Darcy had skipped town that night she said she couldn’t live a lie anymore and there was a girl waiting for her at the bus stop and the way they’d embraced right in front of Steve had simultaneously flummoxed him and made him eager to find out more. He knew they weren’t just friends, but what they were he didn’t know. Now he knows the answer.

 

But he’s had two and a half weeks to process his mistake and justify how he could do something like this. Bucky’s a man, but he’s the most amazing person Steve’s ever known, and whilst he’s scared, he also might be in love.

 

Bucky dives underwater, still holding Steve’s hand so he flails a little bit and then follows. They can’t see much underwater because it’s murky at the bottom and there’s weeds catching at their legs but Steve smiles anyway when he comes up for air. Bucky comes up beside him, catching at his undershirt and pulling, throwing it back towards the bank.

 

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Bucky laughs and he turns to face Steve.

 

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever felt so free in his life.

 

 

That night, they sneak round the backstreets of the town until they reach Clint’s house. It’s low-slung and understated and Bucky grabs a key from his still damp jeans – Steve _told_ him not to put them on wet – and unlocks the house, letting them in. Steve’s never been inside Clint’s house before – and he thinks of it as Bucky’s house – even though he’s walked past it plenty of times to get to the bank.

 

“Let me show you something, Stevie,” Bucky says, pulling at his hand into the living room. “Clint’s got a load of records. Let me show you what you’re missing down here.”

 

Bucky comes to stand by a record player and a hefty stack of records. He flicks through the records, and Steve barely recognises any of the names. “My parents just have lots of piano tunes,” Steve says, grabbing one at random.

 

Bucky grins. “Well, it looks like you’re in for a treat,” he says, and he flips the record over and sets it on the player, setting the pin down and stepping back.

 

As the music starts, Steve begins to laugh. He’s never heard anything like this in his life. “Guitar,” Bucky says to him, but that’s not a guitar that Steve’s ever heard before.  It’s different to the one Bucky plays.

 

“You like it?” Bucky asks, and Steve does. It’s so different from anything he’s heard. “Guy named Johnny. Called ‘Space Guitar’. I thought you might like it,” and Steve nods.

 

“I miss a lot,” Steve admits, standing there in what he thought was his casual wear, and he still feels overdressed compared to the man who’s standing next to him.

 

“LA’s where it’s at,” Bucky says, laughing, and as the guitar moves into a riff, Steve laughs along too, lost in the music.

 

“You don’t know what you’re missing, half of the time,” Bucky says. “Sometimes, I’m not even sure how they can do it.” He says ‘they’ like they’re a different species, as if Steve is different from them. Steve-and-Bucky. He likes that.

 

Bucky very abruptly kisses him, the guitar still playing in the background, hand curving around the back of his neck, the short hairs prickling at his skin. His other hand hands awkwardly, and Steve fits his hand around Bucky’s waist, like he’s learnt that’s where they go. This … this _kissing_ thing is still very new to him. He knows that he likes it. He’s still figuring out where they fit together, but Steve is happy, for once, to let things slip by and find out how it all works out.

 

 

It’s inevitable that Bucky will ask. He’s referenced her so many times. And she’s famous. Four years after she vanished, people still talk about her, like she’s an object.

 

“Who’s Darcy?”

 

Steve sighs. “Darcy Lewis,” he says, and then stops short. How to describe her? “She was like sunshine on a rainy day,” he tries, and then he stops again. “She wore red lipstick and didn’t care what people thought of her. You could say she broke my heart.”

 

“You could?” Bucky cocks his head to one side.

 

“She never actually said the words. Neither did I. We were kids. Two kids in love.”

 

 

The next morning, along with the bills and the newspaper, there’s a folded note in the pile addressed simply to ‘S’ and a scribbled note to meet that night at midnight in the alleyway that Steve’s house backs onto. It’s signed simply with a ‘B’ and it’s in Bucky’s scrawling handwriting, nearly illegible when he writes too fast. Steve opens it in the privacy of his bedroom and tucks it between the pages of _Through The Looking Glass_ , placed away in his bedside table where his mother will never find it.

 

That night, Steve had feigned a headache and went to his room, sitting next to the window with his forehead placed against the glass, fingers tracing over the hastily scribbled words on the back of a receipt until he’s memorised seemingly unimportant words.

 

At five past midnight, he peeks out of the window and there is Bucky, sitting against the fence – he can just see the outline of his body through the slats. The sky is clear and the moon is shining, so he’s able to climb down from the balcony pretty easily, careful not to make any noise for fear he’d wake his mother.

 

He whistles low to Bucky as soon as he’s in earshot, who jumps and turns around, standing up and grinning at him. “Thought you weren’t coming,” Bucky whispers, voice strained.

 

Steve winks. “Couldn’t seem too eager, could I?”

 

Bucky smothers a giggle and because it’s midnight and there’s _nobody around_ , Steve lets Bucky grab at his arm and kiss him quickly, all cold lips and a hand on the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” Steve asks when they’ve broken away from each other. Bucky licks his lips and shrugs, acting nonchalant. It doesn’t really work, but Steve lets it slide.

 

“Just for a walk,” Bucky says with forced casualness.

 

They set off down the road, going down the backstreets. The whole town is silent. Steve’s never gone out at night before, and everything is changed. The moonlight where the sunlight should be changes things, makes everything more magical. Bucky laughs from out of nowhere and Steve glances to his right. His chin is all stubbly and his eyes are reflecting the moonlight, gorgeously gleaming. Steve faces front as Bucky drags him through the park, wolfish grin on his face that means he’s up to no good.

 

It’s cold. Steve pulls the thin jacket around his body and wishes he’d picked something a little heavier. They walk further on down until they reach the silence of the garage, sneaking in through the back door. The windows on the ceilings block the moonlight except for a tiny slither, offering the most privacy they could get.

 

If Steve didn’t get what Bucky was aiming for then, well – he certainly does now. Bucky backs him up against a wall and kisses, giving him no warning before he moves downwards, kissing his neck and sucking marks near his collarbones. Steve doesn’t fight it. He slots his hands right in where they’re meant to be, holding Bucky, and reciprocates when Bucky lets him: kisses him right back.

 

After a while Bucky backs off. Steve’s panting, mind in a whirl. He can’t think of anything but the hardness in his pants and the hunger in Bucky’s eyes and he can’t help but think how _right_ this feels, how much he feels like he’s home. Bucky fits up against him like a puzzle pieces, in all the ways nobody else can, and Steve kisses Bucky again, almost desperate in his need.

 

“Hoped to give you a better time than in the middle of a garage,” and in the silence they’re surrounded in Bucky’s whispers suddenly seem harsh and bitter. Maybe he is. Maybe they both are. Steve laughs, just a little puff of air, and it’s that that tells Bucky that maybe it doesn’t matter.

 

Bucky unbuckles Steve’s belt, gets his pants down and his underwear hanging by his knees. Steve’s never felt more exposed, but Bucky’s gaze seems more appreciative than mocking, and Bucky drops to his knees like he’s done this thousand times before – and Steve won’t admit it in the morning, but the thought that maybe he had is what makes Steve stuff a hand in his mouth to stop himself from groaning.

 

“Can I?” Bucky asks, and he’s trembling. Steve gives a minute little nod and hopes Bucky understands. The little smirk Bucky shoots him tells him all that he needs to know.

 

Bucky kisses up his cock and fits his mouth all around it, getting up close and filthy. Steve lets his hand trail in Bucky’s hair, not holding too tight because he’s not sure what Bucky likes, and another hand in his mouth. He traces the impression of his dick in Bucky’s mouth and oh God, _oh God_ it’s by far the dirtiest thing he’s ever done. Just as he thinks he’s about to blow Bucky pulls back, licks his up and smiles up at him like the cat that got the cream.

 

“Can’t have you coming too soon, can we?” Bucky steps up and loses his own clothing, pushing closer to Steve. The moonlight gleams on his thighs, illuminates the shape of his cock lying heavy between his legs. Steve near whimpers as Bucky encourages him down on the ground, the concrete cold against the back of his legs.

 

Bucky gets between his legs and gets on his knees, kissing the inside of Steve’s thighs. He whispers something Steve doesn’t catch against his skin and closes his eyes, and then Bucky looks up at him and pauses.

 

“This is going to hurt,” he says. “I haven’t got much stuff. It’s hard to get a hold of.”

 

Steve nods without knowing what he’s going into, but he trusts Bucky enough by now. He sits up a little against the wall and Bucky kisses him again, and then Bucky tells him to suck on his finger, just one, and then he tells him to relax and starts working a finger inside. It’s painful. Intrusive. It instinctively makes him want to tense up but Bucky kisses him deep and slow like he knows what’s coming. Another finger. This one hurts more. Steve swallows and breaks apart from Bucky, biting the back of his hand because he doesn’t want to bite Bucky himself. Bucky’s lips are comforting on his neck, kissing him and whispering words and his other hand is stroking his cock, giving him distraction from the discomfort. He’s – he’s wilted a little bit from the pain, but Bucky smiles and kisses him again. It’s his first time with a guy, and he’s only done it a couple of times with girls.

 

“It’s okay, you’re doing okay,” and by the time Bucky pushes a third finger inside of him it’s starting to feel alright. Bucky crooks his fingers and brushes something that makes Steve jerk up, almost coming right there and Bucky smirks, sitting up again and removing his fingers.

 

Bucky brings out a little tub of something from his pocket that Steve hadn’t noticed before. Bucky gets a load on his fingers and slathers it on his dick, groaning under his breath. Steve looks up at him, gives this little nod, and Bucky arranges him just right, until he’s comfortable, and Steve just has to remember to breathe and relax himself.

 

Bucky pushes up inside of him, kissing him, nudging inside until Steve breathes and lets Bucky inside, closing his eyes and working through the discomfort. Bucky prepared him well. He can almost forget he’s sitting up against a wall in the middle of the night.

 

“Can I move?” Bucky whispers, and he’s obviously just holding himself back, much like Steve is doing. Steve nods, just a little, but Bucky catches it and starts to move, slowly at first, and Steve gasps out loud at the feeling.

 

They work together, somewhat awkwardly before they move into a rhythm that Steve’s working with and somehow, _somehow_ manages to keep it together.

 

“I love you,” Bucky gasps out, without warning, without any sense, and he kisses Steve just to distract him from the three words he’s so _stupidly_ said. He thrusts up into Steve and keeps a pace going, kissing Steve anywhere and everywhere he can, everywhere he can reach.

 

Steve just grins down at him the next time their eyes meet. “Bet you say that to all the boys,” he manages to blurt out between pants, canting his hips to meet Bucky halfway. Bucky gets a hand on his dick and pulls, twists his hand like _he_ likes so much, mindful that it’s Steve’s first time and he wants it to be nothing like his own.

 

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else,” Steve says, once he’s gotten his breath back. Bucky blushes right red; of course he does, as if Bucky hadn’t just confessed his love for Steve in the most ridiculous way possible, as if he hadn’t replied with the best comment Bucky’s seen this side of the Atlantic.

 

“I have?” Bucky smiles, kissing Steve’s neck, scratching his face up with his stubble. “Good.”

 

They’re curled around each other, Steve on the middle and Bucky on the outside, kissing his neck and shoulders. Steve catches onto Bucky’s fingers and holds him there, even if it’s just for a minute, because the real world is catching up too fast and this is all they have.

 

When Steve wakes up the next morning in his bedroom, after they’d stumbled back, laughing too loudly like they were drunk, there’s a red mark on his neck that’s just hidden by the old suit he’s wearing to church. He can’t remember how he got home – all he remember is kissing Bucky by the fence like he was drunk on love, drunk on the kissing, the _sex_ , and now he’s walking into church with a hickey on his neck that he got from a man.

 

 

“I’m going to LA tomorrow. There’s a … society there. For people like us.” Bucky blurts out one day. They’ve been together, properly _together_ together for just a few weeks – possibly a couple of months or three if Steve is really counting – and in that time they’ve gotten closer than Steve thinks he’s ever experienced with anyone before. He’s got Bucky to stop leaving bruises on his neck, though, even though in the winter it won’t be so bad.

 

“What?”

 

Bucky rubs his cheek. “This town – it’s suffocating.” Steve is reminded of the time Darcy had said the same thing, when she’d rolled over, pulled her skirt down her legs and her socks up, and she’d kissed him and told him it was like she couldn’t breathe.

 

“And you’re going to LA? Just like that?”

 

“It’s a good place. Especially for … our tendencies,” and Bucky grimaces. Steve stumbles over his words as he tries to reach out for Bucky, but Bucky starts talking again. “I can’t do it alone. I need you to come with me.” Bucky’s adopted a defensive stance, almost like he knows already that Steve will refuse.

 

“Why?” Steve screws up his face. “Why not stay here?” He feels like he is refusing to process Bucky’s words.

 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “This … this isn’t enough for me anymore. I don’t want to hide who I love. I don’t like hiding. It’s cowardly.”

 

Steve points out on the streets, suddenly frustrated by the demands. They’re sitting on a car bonnet, and Bucky is smoking. “I’m not going to publicise it, do you have any idea what that’d do? Oh wait, you don’t because you don’t care, _you don’t think_.” He uses his initial thoughts of Bucky to fire insults at him, to hit him where he knows it’ll hurt him.

 

Bucky’s eyes flash, dangerous. He holds his head up defiantly. Steve knows Bucky knows; he knows Bucky is close to losing him temper, but he wouldn’t dare be so public. “I do care,” he says. “I care more than you know. More than I’ve ever said.”

 

Steve squares his shoulders. “Then how the fuck am I supposed to know?” He thinks he might be yelling.

 

“I just want more,” Bucky says, deflated. “I want to be able to kiss you in public, hold hands with you. I want to see your mom’s smug little face fall as I kiss you in front of her, because that’s something I’d be _allowed to do_.” Bucky closes his eyes. “I just want more. I just want what I can’t have. Is that so wrong?”

 

Steve doesn’t want to hear this. Can’t hear this, because this isn’t what his life is supposed to be. He was never meant to fall in love with the greasy mechanic who was running away from life – he was meant to be with Dolores, or even Darcy, and he curses because it isn’t _fair_.

 

“Life’s not fair,” Bucky whispers, broken, and Steve’s realises he’s just uttered it out loud.

 

“I love you,” Steve says, honest as he’ll ever be. “I’m sorry,” he also says, because he knows that the words are both amazing and frightening to hear. Amazing – because love is never not – and frightening, because if anyone overheard, they’d be arrested.

 

Bucky looks to the left. Then he marches forward, flips the sign on the door so it says _Closed_ , and shuts the massive doors leading into the garage.

 

He strides forward and kisses Steve, gets them close together and dirty, licking into his mouth and getting his belt unbuckled. He’s making no bones about what he wants and Steve finds himself getting hard, getting harder with every rough palm and buck as Bucky ruts up against him. It’s urgent. Almost painful with the speed and direction Bucky is taking. It’s because he’s angry, and Steve can’t deny him this.

 

He pulls Steve’s trousers down, pants following. They haven’t much time: Steve does the same to Bucky, not bothering with the shirts – this is a routine they’ve practised before, but not enough times that Steve would like. Bucky’s dick lies hot and heavy between his legs, and he’s stumbling, pressing against Steve and kissing him wherever he can.

 

They back up against the garage wall. Bucky’s covered in grease from the car, skin all slippery and gliding against Steve’s big hands. ‘Artist hands’ Steve can once recall Bucky saying, and he wonders what they’d be doing if they didn’t fill out forms in banking. Bucky bucks against the wall, face pressed against it, cheek to the wall, eyes closed.

 

“Bucky, I don’t have anything –” Steve stammers out.

 

“Vaseline on the bench,” Bucky grunts, rutting against Steve’s palms. Steve lurches to the side and scrambles the shit on the workbench out of place, grabbing the Vaseline in the little pot easily.

 

“What the fuck you got this here for?” Steve has seemed to lost control of his mouth, and Bucky grunts, because Steve rarely swears – and then he swears again, for no reason, just for the sheer hell of it, and Bucky groans.

 

“Good for … getting rusted joints moving in an engine,” he says, grinning wickedly. Steve never thought car parts could get him so hot, but at the same time all he can feel is his heart breaking, shattering into tiny little fragments, as if giving himself up like this will stop Bucky from going.

 

Steve dips his fingers in and spreads the Vaseline over, getting them sticky. Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t need it,” he trembles. “Already done it this morning.”

 

Steve groans against Bucky’s neck. “Didn’t think I’d find that sexy a few months ago.” He tries to live in the moment and forget.

 

Bucky smirks. “Thought you would. Get going!” There’s something oddly cold in his smirk. Something Steve can’t figure out even after months of having only him to study.

 

Steve spreads the Vaseline on his dick, groaning at the feeling of his fingers, imagines it’s Bucky. Bucky laughs, as if he knows, and how Bucky is keeping his hands up on the wall and keeping himself calm Steve will _never_ know.

 

Steve ruts up against Bucky and sheaths himself in in one go, kissing the back of Bucky’s neck as he does so, grabbing Bucky’s hands and curling his fingers in so they’re entwined. He starts a steady rhythm, Bucky thrusting back to meet him halfway each time.

 

Steve comes first, getting a hand around Bucky’s waist and pumping him just enough so that he’s riding out his orgasm just as Steve does.

 

Bucky slumps against the wall, laughs that little laugh he does and twists his neck around so that they can kiss. It’s all teeth and the nips on his lips are verging on the edge of pain. Steve braces himself, hands against the wall so that he doesn’t move much because Bucky’s all sensitive after he comes, and he pulls out slowly and kisses Bucky as he does so.

 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, because it seems the right time to ask, “come to LA with me. Please.” The hungry look in his eyes just moments before seems to be replaced with desperation. “I _love_ you.”

 

Steve lays his head on Bucky’s warm shoulder. He knows he should say no. There’s so many reasons why he should say no.

 

“If you say no, you won’t see me again.” Bucky leans his forehead against the wall. The chill makes him think for a moment. “I can catch the bus out of town tomorrow morning.”

 

Steve kisses his neck. He doesn’t know why he’s agreeing to this, but he thinks he should grab the opportunity while he can. He’d rather die than be stuck in this suffocating town without Bucky to help him get along by and the more he thinks, the more he realises how unfair it is to keep Bucky here: he’s like Darcy, needing to move onto the next thing, needing freedom and fresh hair to keep them alive. “You’ll do no such thing,” he says. His heart beats fast. “I have a motorbike.”

 

Bucky deflates with relief. Insane. What he’s doing is insane. “You’re coming with me?”

 

Why the hell shouldn’t he, Steve thinks. There’s plenty of reasons why running off to LA with a mechanic is a bad idea, but he can’t think of any reasons just this moment. And if he happens to think of a reason a little way down the line … he’ll just forget it.

 

All he knows is that if Bucky leaves without him, he’ll be stifled by this town. He’ll die. He’ll live, but it won’t be happy. The idea of a life stuck with Dolores living as a banker, with two children – Steve nods against Bucky’s shoulder. “Of course. I’d follow you anywhere.”

 

Bucky smiles. “That’s … that’s real good, Stevie.” He doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself now that Steve’s agreed. Steve closes his eyes and they stand there for a little while longer, silent, except for the rapid beating of their hearts.

 

 

A week later, after Steve was able to organise everything he needed to, talk to his mother, resign from the bank, he throws on a pair of jeans that he’d bought on a whim, the leather jacket that’s actually Bucky’s, and a white shirt. He looks exactly like the boys he’d seen in the movie Bucky had taken him to see. He peers at himself in the mirror and smiles, wonders what Dolores would think if she saw him like this.

 

He doesn’t bother with breakfast, too nervous. His mom sits beside him, sprinkling sugar in her tea. She knows he’s going away for a while, but not where to, and why. Even so, she asks him what he’s wearing, like she thought it was a business trip. God, he loves her. She’s the only part of this town he’ll miss.

 

“Nothing, mom,” Steve leans down and kisses the top of her head. Her curly hair smells vaguely of flowery perfume.

 

“Are you going to be okay, darling?” Mrs. Rogers is a better mom than Steve gives her credit for, he thinks. When he told her about his plans to leave town for a while, she told him about her family came to America from Ireland and helped her as best she could. Adventurous, she is. Maybe he could get her to come out with him after he’s gotten settled. There’s nothing keeping her here, he thinks.

 

He’s left a letter for her, and for Dolores, too, because he can’t bear to leave her behind without saying anything. She deserves an explanation – she took the separation so well, and Steve owes her something for that. He wishes he could make it easier on his mother, though.

 

When he first told her he was going to go, she’d gasped out she hadn’t understood, and asked him why he’d needed to do this.

 

Steve had ignored the question, and then he’d told her what Bucky and Darcy had both told him before, and she closed her eyes and he thought she might have cried.

 

“I tried to give you the best I could, Steven,” she said, and Steve had held her hands and told her she had given him the best upbringing possible, and that he was happy, but he needed to do this for himself.

 

“I will see you in a while, mom.” He says now. “Take care of yourself, alright?” He’s left her some of his savings, taking the rest of it with him to LA. It isn’t fair to leave her in the lurch like this. He promises to write and kisses the top of her head, stroking her curls. “Meet a nice man, mom. Keep yourself happy. I’m going to write. I just need to be away for a while, okay?”

 

“Where are you going? When will you be back?” His mom asks suddenly, like she hasn’t asked before, and she hugs him, suddenly. She doesn’t give him time to answer her questions: “look after yourself, baby,” she tells him. Steve has heard the story of how her family came over from Ireland when times were hard, and he knows they both contain strength they can rely on.

 

He puts down the envelope with the money in on the sideboard, heads out the door, wheeling his bike down the driveway and kick-starting it in the street. The neighbours stare. He can see their curtains twitching as they peek out of their windows. His mom opens the curtain in the window and stares out at him – and he thinks for a minute that she’ll try and stop him – but she smiles at him and points at the post box out at the end of the street with this sad little smile and he nods. _I promise to write, mom_.

 

He suddenly misses her when he’s just stepped outside of his front door. He experiences a moment of panic, of madness, and then he hitches up his bag on his shoulder and thinks of where Bucky is waiting for him at the other end of town, and he steels his resolve. He gives one last wave to his mom and turns his back.

 

He guns it down the street, goes through the town where everyone is busy walking to work, buying papers and lunch and he drives through the streets until he reaches the garage. Bucky is standing outside and waiting for him, dressed exactly as he was when he walked through those doors for the first time. Ruiner of hearts, breaker of hearts, Dolores’ mom had said, and yet Bucky has put his back together.

 

Bucky comes down to the curb and swings his legs round, holds on tight. Clint comes out to say goodbye. Steve gives him a wave and they begin to drive, map in the back of Bucky’s pocket and a whole lot of adventure between the two of them.

 

It’s not much, but it’s a start.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed! I certainly enjoyed all the late night research, learning fun 50's American lingo, deleting the entirety of this just a couple of weeks before posting and rewriting the entire thing before I came to my senses and realised that yes, I did need to post something, and what I had was okay. Just had to, you know, edit. I'd love to know what you think.


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